Torn Apart (12 page)

They've cracked down on steroids in sport. About body-building, I wasn't sure, but my feeling was there was less interest generally in that these days than in the past. Maybe because Arnie had gone political and Sly and Rocky and Rambo were winding down. But I knew of one area of activity where they were still used and where I had contacts.

I'd worked a few times as a bodyguard for film and television actors and in that role I'd naturally fallen into conversation with stuntmen like Ben Corbett. Corbett was what was known in the film and television world as a ‘wheelie', specialising in motorised stunts, but there were others, particularly ‘swingers', who performed athletic jumping, falling, hanging—essentially gymnastic—illusions. They had to be strong and quick and they regularly injured themselves but needed to keep working because they weren't well paid.

They used steroids to build strength but, more importantly, to recover from strains, pulls, dislocations. These people, mostly men but including a few women, paid very high insurance premiums and the movie production companies did the same to safeguard themselves against lawsuits in the event of accidents. The stunters had to pass frequent medical tests and it was a fair bet that they'd try to mask their use of steroids. Patrick's pills could look attractive in that context.

Toby Fairweather had done some of the stunts for one of the actors I'd bodyguarded in a film that involved a lot of climbing, swinging, jumping and diving. I'd been impressed by the careful way he'd gone about setting everything up to minimise the risks. He was a disciplined guy, didn't drink when working, and was a fitness fanatic. But he admitted that his body had taken a battering over the years and that he used steroids to keep going. I thought he'd know how the market stood, how high the stakes were.

When Toby's not stunting or working out in the gym, he conducts early morning and late afternoon classes in Chinese fighting sticks, conducted in Camperdown Park. Good little earner, low overhead. I threaded through the traffic and the singing, dancing pilgrims and got there when a class was in full swing. There were four pupils, two men and two women, and Toby was putting them through their paces, switching them from one-on-one combat to a sort of all-in melee and then cutting one out and taking that one on himself. The pupils were young, in their late teens and early twenties; two Asian, two not. Toby is forty plus but was clearly faster and more deft than any of them, although they all showed promise.

I sat on a seat and watched as the light faded. The clatter of the sticks and the grunts and occasional screeches attracted a few bystanders. When the session finished, some of the watchers clapped before drifting away. Toby bowed, all style. He collected the sticks, spoke briefly to the youngsters, picked up his bag and sauntered over to where I was sitting.

‘Hi, Cliff. Great exercise and very calming. You should try it.'

‘Gidday, Toby. I've been hit on the head too many times already, thanks, and I'm calm enough.'

He sat and tied the sticks into a bundle with a length of cord and put them into his long bag—the kind cricketers use. ‘You're never calm,' he said. ‘You don't have a calm aura.'

‘I do my best. I need some information, Toby. Do you want to go somewhere up King Street for herbal tea?'

He laughed. ‘Love to take the piss, don't you? No, I'm happy here. I've got a stunt rehearsal to go to soon. What's up?'

I told Toby as much as he needed to know about Patrick's steroids. He listened intently while squeezing a rubber ball in each of his hands as a wrist strengthening exercise. I suppose you need strong wrists when hanging from bridges and swinging on ropes across rivers.

‘Built-in masking agent, you reckon,' he said. ‘Those things would be worth a lot of money. Didn't happen to hang on to a handful, did you?'

‘Who'd want them, apart from would-be suicides like you? Athletes? Footballers?'

He shook his head. ‘Not worth it, but lots of people—truckies with injuries and getting too old for the game; tuna fishermen, same thing; police rescue boys and girls; mountaineers, rock climbers, cavers—you name it.'

I thought about Patrick's remark:
I have a thought or two.
‘Is there enough money in it for someone to get killed for doing the wrong thing?'

‘You mean ripping off a consignment?'

‘Something like that, or horning in on an established market.'

‘I don't think it's organised enough for that. More a matter of people seeing an opportunity and grabbing it, but I could ask around. Who's got the stuff we're talking about now?'

‘Dunno. Police or Customs.'

‘It'll filter through, then, at least some of it. I'll keep an eye out.'

I thanked him and had got up to leave when he pushed me down and pointed to the suture scar just showing above the top button of my shirt.

‘That what I think it is?'

I nodded. ‘Bypass.'

‘What did I tell you when I saw you tucking into steak and chips on that movie set?'

‘The catering was too flash to resist.'

‘Things've changed. It's pies and sausage rolls now, if you're lucky. Doesn't bother me of course. Well, see you, Cliff. Glad you're still in the land of the living, even though you don't deserve to be.'

Toby is a vegetarian. He loped away and I watched him disappear into the gathering gloom. I was hearing that sort of news too much lately from people in various professions—restricted services, belt tightening.

As I got up and stretched, joints cracking, two men came slouching towards me. One was about my height and build, the other shorter and wider. They were both young and carrying stubbies.

‘Hey, mate, got a spare smoke?' the taller one said.

‘No, sorry.'

Shorty said, ‘Got a light?'

‘Why would I have a light if I haven't got a cigarette?'

‘You're a smartarse,' Shorty said.

‘And you're a nuisance. Go away.'

The taller one said, ‘I bet he's got a wallet.'

‘Go away before you get hurt.'

He reached out and grabbed the lapel of my jacket. Bad move. Two free hands will usually beat none. I hit him hard over the heart. He dropped to his knees and vomited. The other man swung at my head with his bottle. Another mistake—too small a target and a head can duck. Go for the body first. I gave him a right rip to the ribs and when he sagged I lifted my knee and caught him under the chin. He collapsed and his bottle hit the graffiti-covered brick wall and smashed.

I bent down, lifted him, and propped him against the wall under a peace sign. ‘Look after your mate. He's not feeling well.'

I walked away. The confrontation had taken a matter of seconds and the few other people in the park were too far away to see what happened.

I drove home. Sheila's VW was parked across from my house. She got out as I arrived; we embraced in the middle of the street, and she stepped back sniffing.

‘What?' I said.

‘Funny smell.'

We went into the house and when we were under the light she pointed to my pants below the knee. ‘Ugh, you've got chuck all over you.'

I'd been massaging a bruised knuckle. She noticed. She put down her bag with a thump. ‘What happened, Cliff?'

‘Couple of wannabe muggers.'

‘Did they hurt you? No, you hurt them, didn't you?'

‘They were young and inexperienced and probably drunk. It's nothing to be proud of. Let me get cleaned up. Did I say I was glad to see you?'

‘No, but you will be. I've pulled myself together and I'm ready to tell you everything I can about Paddy and to show you a few things as well.'

I changed my clothes and we sent out for Vietnamese food. Sheila was animated, almost hectic, high on the prospect of the film and fascinated by the character she was playing. Her research had gone well and reports from the producer, getting the money together, and the director, scouting locations, were good. She drank a few glasses of wine and hoed into the fish and vegetables but scarcely touched the rice. I'd never mastered chopsticks; Sheila was adept. She tried to instruct me as others had done but I was hopeless. The sore hand didn't help.

‘You must really have belted him,' she said. ‘You were a boxer like Paddy, weren't you?'

I was glad we'd reached the subject. ‘He was a pro, I was an amateur.'

‘Mr Modest.' She got up, fetched her bag and sat on the couch. ‘Come over here.'

I drained my glass and went. The extra weight in her bag turned out to be a hefty photograph album. She opened it over our close-together knees. Sheila was a keen photographer and a good one. She'd kept an extensive photographic record of her tortured relationship and marriage to Patrick Malloy from the days of their meeting at a party to the final split—a shot of Patrick storming off towards his car. Good times and bad times; smiles and tears; presents and the aftermath of rows—smashed glasses, scattered books, broken furniture.

‘You can see how it was,' she said. ‘We'd break up, go off with someone else and get back together again. Look, here's Seamus Cummings and here's one of the women Paddy was fucking, one of many. I took that without her knowing, jealous as hell.'

The photographs were more or less in chronological order and carried captions: ‘Paddy beating me at pool', ‘Our wedding', ‘Us at Kakadu', etc.

Sheila leaned towards me. ‘I bet you looked exactly like him at the same age. What d'you think?'

‘Pretty much. Just a bit more handsome.'

‘Huh. Just as cocksure, if you know what I mean.'

There were several photos of Patrick in military uniform looking pleased with himself, and one near the end of the collection of him in what looked like a bushman's outfit. Not exactly fatigues, more the movie version of fatigues. He'd put on weight and grown a bristly moustache and didn't look much like me at all.

‘What's this?' I said. ‘I never looked like that.'

‘That's his African outfit.'

‘I thought you'd broken up permanently by then.'

‘We had, but he turned up. He was always turning up out of the blue and causing trouble.'

‘What was the name of that group? Did he ever tell you? He shouldn't have, but since he was showing off . . .'

‘He was drunk and unhappy. He didn't care what he said. He did mention a name, but I forget—something Greek. Hercules, Parthenon . . .'

‘Well, he never made it to Africa.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

‘He told me he quit the mercenary mob in England when he learned what they were headed for. Deserted, he said.'

‘That's not true. He went to Africa, all right. Look.'

She pulled a postcard from its plastic sleeve and handed it to me. It showed a bush village with characteristic African flat-top trees in the background. The message read: ‘Shillelagh, glad you're not here. Love, Paddy.' The card was postmarked Luanda, Republic of Angola.

Sheila went off to Melbourne to do more research for her part, this time to talk to people with information about the female role in the gang wars. She said a member of the production team was going with her, a karate expert.

‘He'd better be an expert in a bit more than that.'

‘Like what?'

‘Australian football, dining in Carlton, catching trams, coats and scarves . . .'

‘I gather you don't like Melbourne.'

‘Nothing good ever happened to me there. You'll be right. Have fun—not too much.'

‘What're you going to do?'

‘The usual. Talk to people who know things I need to know.'

A web search for Australian mercenary soldiers turned up only one useful item—a book entitled
Diggers for Hire
by John Casey, published by Partisan Press in 2007. Thanks to the software loaded by Lily and transferred to my new computer, I had Sydney University's Fisher Library catalogue online and found that the book was in the research section. I walked to the university past all the restoration and enhancement work being done on Glebe Point Road to run into major work going on inside the campus. Holes in the ground, cranes, noise—not exactly the dreaming spires. I threaded my way through detours and diversions to the library, made an inquiry and was directed to the right section. A ticket that allows you to borrow costs a fortune, but there's nothing to stop you reading inside the place. The book was mercifully slim and I sat down with it and a notebook. I haven't had much to do with university libraries since my less than successful student days when I was supposed to be studying law but was more interested in other things.

John Casey was a professor at Macquarie University, a former soldier and no stylist. The introduction nearly put me to sleep in the musty, air-conditioned atmosphere and I was relieved to see that the book had an index. I worked through it looking for anything Greek, and the only likely reference was to something called the Olympic Corps. The reference was limited to one paragraph:

The Olympic Corps is a shadowy organisation that may indeed be no more than a rumour. It has been mentioned by former soldiers, but no actual member has ever been identified. All information about it is, as far as my researches show, hearsay. One person has heard something about it from another and that information is elaborated on and extended by a further account, which turns out to have no more solid foundation. Lurid stories are told of African, Pacific and Caribbean adventures having more the ring of airport fiction than reality. Official sources, with detailed information about such bodies as Sandline, are silent about the Olympic Corps, sometimes called the Corps Olympic. It may be a military myth.

In a footnote, the author said that FOI approaches to the Department of Defence and the Attorney-General's Depart- ment had met with no reply at the time of the book going to press. I emailed the professor that I had some information about the Olympic Corps and would like to meet him to discuss it. I was about to log off when the chime told me I had a message. Casey must have been at the computer when my message arrived because he'd replied immediately, giving me his phone number and asking me to contact him a.s.a.p.

I did.

‘Jack Casey.'

‘It's Cliff Hardy, professor.'

‘Good. Have you got a secure line?'

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘Mine is, as far as I know, but let's keep it short. Where and when can we meet?'

He lived in Balmain and we fixed on a Darling Street pub at 3 pm. This felt like progress of some kind. I photocopied the passage in Casey's book, left the library and walked home. When I got there a car was parked outside my house and a uniformed police officer stepped out of it and approached me.

‘Mr Hardy?'

We'd seen each other at the Glebe station. ‘You know it is.'

He opened the rear door of the car. ‘Please accompany me to the station.'

‘Why?'

‘Just get in.'

I unshipped my mobile and stepped back. ‘Not until I know why.'

‘Under the terms of your bail you're required to report—'

‘Jesus Christ, I forgot.'

They made me wait at the station while they filled in forms, made phone calls, twiddled their thumbs. Then they read me the riot act, warning me that another violation could bring the cancellation of my bail, arrest and the loss of part of my bond. I gritted my teeth and took it. When they finally let me go there was barely time to get to Balmain to meet the professor. I was certainly ready for a drink.

Prof Casey was no tweedy bookworm. I'd given him my description over the phone. The man who jumped to his feet and waved a copy of his book at me was late forties, of medium height, solidly built with thick hair and a bushy beard—both dark with a lot of grey. He wore jeans, a grey Harvard T-shirt and a black leather jacket. There was a carafe of red wine on his table with two glasses. Looked like he'd already made a solid start.

‘Mr Hardy, I'm Jack Casey.'

‘Cliff,' I said. We shook hands.

‘I'm on the red. You want something else?'

‘Red's fine.'

We sat down and he poured. His copy of
Diggers for Hire
had seen a lot of work: the spine was broken and the corners of pages had been turned down and bits of paper were sticking up. I took out my photocopied page with the footnote highlighted. I took a big slug of the wine.

‘You said you had information about Olympic Corps.'

‘That's right.' I pointed to the highlighting. ‘I'm hoping you've had more luck with this.'

He put on reading glasses and peered. ‘I get it. We're swapping, are we? What's your profession, Cliff?'

‘I
was
a private detective, now . . .'

‘Ah, yes, it comes back to me. You got the flick.'

‘That's right. Now I'm investigating the death of someone I
think
may have belonged to this mercenary mob.'

‘Why?'

‘He was my cousin and it happened in my house.'

He went up in my estimation by not saying he was sorry. Why should he be? He took a swallow of wine and examined me closely. ‘Convince me you're not a spook of some kind.'

I laughed. ‘They wouldn't have me, and I wouldn't have a bar of them. I've met a few in my time, a couple were all right, but most of 'em couldn't tell their arses from their elbows. They might've got better, of course.'

He shook his head. ‘They haven't—worse if anything in this paranoid climate, which I hope is cooling.'

It was a standoff. I might have asked the same question as him. Universities have always harboured intelligence people, but Casey didn't strike me as a candidate. I took Sheila's photograph of Patrick in Africa from my pocket and the postcard.

‘This is the man I'm talking about, and this is a postcard he sent from a certain place. I'll tell you more if you reciprocate.'

He studied the photo, took off his glasses, wiped them on a ragged tissue, and looked closely again. ‘Fuck me,' he said. ‘This could really be something. See those inverted chevrons? I've seen photos of mercenaries wearing those in . . .'

‘Angola. That's where P . . . he sent a postcard from.'

‘Right. Who is this guy?'

I took the photo back. ‘Whoa. Give and take. Tell me why you asked me if my line was secure, and what's all that about spooks? And I want to hear about the FOI request.'

‘Then you'll tell me who he is?'

‘Was. I might, under certain conditions.'

‘That's a hard bargain.'

I finished off the red and poured another glass, ‘Take it or leave it.'

He reached down for the backpack under the table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. I'd seen others like them many times before. They were governmental files but these had the identity of the department and practically the whole of their content blacked out. He leafed through the sheets, showing me that barely a sentence or two per page was complete.

‘National security,' he said.

‘Tell me about the photos of the mercenaries you saw.'

He pointed to the photo in my hand. ‘Who?'

‘You first.'

‘Okay. It was of a bunch of unidentified white mercenaries shackled together and apparently on their way to prison. Or maybe not.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Both sides did nasty things to each other in that war. I should say
all
sides because there were quite a few. I'm talking about mutilations and beheadings of the living and the dead. Killing prisoners was routine.'

‘His name was Patrick Malloy. Someone blew him apart with a shotgun.'

He gulped down some more wine, took a small box from the pocket of his jacket, opened it and sniffed up a pinch of powder. ‘Snuff,' he said. ‘Only way to use tobacco inside these days.'

‘I'm waiting for the sneeze.'

‘Doesn't always happen. There's a security angle to all this, obviously. But a shotgun doesn't sound like our lot.'

‘I wouldn't be too sure,' I said. ‘There's always outsourcing.'